


Cliveden Conversations

by mrstater, vladnyrki



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Courtship, F/M, First Meetings, Original Character(s), Power Dynamics, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Sports, Tennis, Waltzing, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstater/pseuds/mrstater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vladnyrki/pseuds/vladnyrki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have you ever come across Sir Richard Carlisle? We met at Cliveden…" Mary and Richard's relationship unfolds during a series of house parties, 1916-1924.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1916 (I)

**Author's Note:**

> The two of us have beta-read each other's fics for so long, we thought it was high time to see if we made a good writing team and could build a fic worth having. ;) What better story to start with than the early days of Mary and Richard's courtship? A word of warning: updates will likely be sporadic-although that's rather fitting considering the pairing in question, isn't it? We hope you'll enjoy this joint effort!

Sir Richard Carlisle was a handsome man, and a woman would have to be blind not to see it at once-especially these days, when men below a certain age were rare sights at house parties, and those that were in attendance did not usually return from the battlefields in as many pieces as when they left. Certainly Mary took notice of the infamous newspaper publisher when Nancy Astor introduced them on the first day of the party, not only his rather remarkable bone structure and the dimples that winked charmingly beneath his cheekbones when he smiled at her, but the commanding stance he struck in the vast Cliveden library: the hand he shook hers with was long-fingered and strong, and the authority suggested by his well-tailored business suit never quite left him even when he later traded it for evening tails.

She should not have been surprised, therefore, to see that power translate into athleticism as he strode across the lawn to meet her on the tennis courts. Perhaps it had been unwise to accept his challenge, but her competitive appetite had only been awakened by trouncing Nancy and some of the other ladies at croquet; Sir Richard's compliments on her playing-he had apparently witnessed her victory from the library window-were too delicious for her to decline another game, one she enjoyed even more for its rigor. She had not, however, counted on another sort of appeal, that presented to her in the form of a handsome man in sport whites. He sauntered toward her in an almost feline manner, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his well-fitting trousers, and her gaze raked upward over the muscular forearms revealed by rolled-up shirtsleeves and the trim waist revealed by the lightweight summer jumper.

Tearing her eyes from his physique, Mary instead met his gaze-but that was not much of an improvement, for his eyes were remarkably blue, even squinting against the glare of the early afternoon sun, the criss-crossed lines at the corners only adding to the appeal of rugged masculinity.

"There you are," she said, approaching to give him a racket. "I was beginning to think you'd thought the better of playing me. Of course, I'd still have considered it a victory-by forfeit."

A forfeit might be her best chance of victory, if Sir Richard was as ruthless on the tennis courts as he was purported to be in Fleet Street. Although, there was no sign of that trait in his demeanor when he replied.

"But a victory by forfeit never tastes as good as the real thing," he deadpanned with his most charming smile. "Far be it from me to deprive you of that, Lady Mary."

The way she arched a perfect eyebrow as she taunted him was terribly enticing, to say the least, and he felt he could make a habit of challenging her just for the pleasure of gazing at the way her eyes darkened and her stubborn chin raised in defiance.

"I thank you for accepting my challenge. Though, I have to warn you that I'm a bit out of practice."

It was a white lie by omission. Since the war started two years ago, he had been stuck in Great Britain, unable to satisfy his passion for alpinism-Scotland provided beautiful sites, but none so challenging as the Alps-and his restless nature had been tested. Rugby games had been interrupted-half the players, his cousins and nephews included, were busy getting themselves killed-and good society knew better than to start a tennis game against him, or accept to partner with him for a doubles match.

Too intense about a simple game, they said.

Raised too quickly in society to understand what sport meant to the aristocracy his recent knighthood had given him access to.

Lady Mary, however, seemed different. She had a competitive streak which he could have sensed at a ten-mile radius, and he was delighted. If she lived up to the expectation set by her proud words, the so-called competition slated for the following day would be most interesting. He might not have to pester Miss Fields to give him an excuse to rush back to the city before the party broke up, after all.

The fact that Lady Mary was absolutely stunning in her white summer dress was a delicious added bonus.

Richard took his place on his side of the field and absently played with the small yellow ball, relishing the feel of it in his palm, making it rebound again and again.

Ready to serve, he watched his unlikely opponent and smiled approvingly at her posture, the way she bent her waist and flexed her knees lightly, ready to run, her grip on her racket firm but relaxed.

More stunning by the second. The likelihood of his phoning Miss Fields again diminishing by the second, he served, hard and fast, aiming at the central line in the service court.

There was only a fraction of a second to admire the lean line of his body, the ripple of tendons in his forearms as he stretched and arched to serve the ball, and the intense concentration etched on his face, his lips pinched together in a colorless line, before all her attention was on her own movement to return the powerful serve. She did so handily, though not without effort, but Sir Richard was correct about the taste of victory. She never felt satisfied by an easy win; nor could she bear losing to an opponent who went too easy on her. Men were notoriously guilty of both offences, and she never could decide which was worse: being allowed by a would-be suitor to win, or playing against a man who pulled punches yet ultimately couldn't stand to lose to a member of the weaker sex.

Of course, Sir Richard might not be able to stand it, either, and could just as well have challenged her to teach her a lesson-though judging by the grin that lightened his face, giving him an almost boyish look as the yellow ball rocketed back to his side of the court, this did not appear to be the case. If she judged incorrectly and he did mean to crush her, Mary didn't care. She tightened her grip around the handle of her racket, enjoying the tingle in her hands as the force of her opponent's returns jarred her a little, her confidence mounting each time she saw him furrow his brow or bite his lower lip or heard a grunt of effort from across the net.

Perhaps she got a little too confident, one particularly forceful swing sending the ball out of bounds.

"Damn!" she swore before she could think; she hoped against hope that he hadn't heard the curse over his own heavy breathing as he retrieved the ball, and felt heat that had nothing to do with exertion or the summer temperatures prickle in her face.

But Richard had heard it, and as he caught the ball she tossed to him, he thought this was going to be very amusing, indeed. Lady Mary had a very nice technique and she ran after the ball like a bull-terrier.

A very pretty bull-terrier who swore when she missed the ball.

The chin raised in defiance and the eyes darkened once more as she walked back to her side of the field, and Richard could feel his own smile widen. He served again, with less force, but with more spin. Lady Mary did not let this trick fool her and hit back, albeit with less force than during their first exchange. He returned the ball to the other side of the field. Her long legs brought her easily from one side to another and, quite surprisingly, her rather rigid posture hid a great flexibility as she stretched to reach the ball. However, she was at the end of her run so he attacked the net, delicately volleying the ball out of her reach.

He never was a very patient tennis player, after all.

She was a good player, and she deserved his best tennis from him.

He would make amends tonight.

Richard threw the ball at her.

"Would you like to warm up your service before we start, Lady Mary?"

The contrast of her reddening cheeks with her white dress was most endearing as she caught her breath and the ball.

She'd scarcely curled her fingers around it when she tossed it into the air again and swung her racket, catching Sir Richard's eye as she followed through with her serve.

"No!" she called out.

Now it was he who cursed as he scrambled to return her serve, but he swung just short of the ball.

"You did say I was ruthless," said Mary in her most innocent tone as he jogged after it.

Richard picked up the ball and stared at her in astonished disbelief. Who would have thought that beneath her rather aloof façadeLady Mary hid such a childlike and playful side? This game was getting more interesting by the minute.

"I remember," he replied in his most tolerant tone. Instinct told him that not taking her bait would prove most fascinating.

"Although," he continued, "I remember also saying that I respect the rules of sport much more than society's rules." Behind his line he faced her again, unable to school the amused expression on his face. "You do realize that the serving player is supposed to wait for his opponent to be ready before starting the game?"

To prove his point, he rebounded the ball a few times, waiting for her to get into position.

"Shall we begin for real?" he asked.

Richard served.

Hard and fast.

Ace.

"Fifteen-love, I'm afraid. Did I tell you I won quite a few tournaments when I was a student at the University of Glasgow?"

"So I shouldn't feel too badly if I lose?"

Mary took the ball from an onlooker who'd brought it to her, thanking her lucky stars as she noticed the gathering audience that this time she'd repressed the urge to swear-though Sir Richard had not, at least, appeared too scandalized by the slip of her poise. In fact, he appeared to be enjoying their verbal match as much as the tennis.

If you like a good argument, we should see more of each other.

She banished the thought of Matthew and focused on the pair of narrow blue eyes watching her from across the net, attentive to her every movement.

"Even better," she went on, "you should feel very badly if you lose."

That did not seem likely as Sir Richard sent another strong serve her way, though she was ready for it this time and didn't go down without a good fight.

She caught his second service-to her credit, she really was a fast runner-but her arms which looked so delicate framed by the fluttery sleeves of her white dress lacked the necessary strength to return it properly. The ball floated from her side to his, losing momentum rapidly, giving him enough time to prepare a well aimed passing shot in her back.

"First rule of sport, Lady Mary…" He accepted the ball another onlooker sent to him-their little game was becoming a circus, and Richard could not help but feel irritated by this latest development. "Always think about the many ways you can lose before you start to imagine your victory."

"In other words: don't count my chickens before they've hatched?"

"I like to avoid clichés, but yes, that's about the size of it."

He made the ball rebound a few times to regain his focus, and served, giving the ball a lot of spin. As expected, his beautiful opponent managed to catch the ball quite easily. However, there was a trick and, more unexpectedly, she guessed it almost in time as the slight twitching of her wrist indicated, but that was not enough. The treacherous ball flew sidewise out of the field.

"Is it forty-love?" he taunted, getting ready for another service.

Another ace.

Now came the real test.

Usually, this was the moment when his opponent complained about his excessive fighting spirit, finished the game, and declined another challenge. This, more than prejudice against his too recently obtained knighthood, was the reason why Richard found it more and more difficult to find a suitable partner for a tennis game.

However, if Lady Mary was different from her lot as he had the feeling she was, things were about to get interesting.

The spectators had begun to walk away; Mary caught a few muttered remarks: ought to have gone easy on her...beastly show-off...so typical of that kind. Her friend Lady Sylvia Fitzherbert, who was engaged to the Marquess of Fletchley, called out as Mary fetched the tennis ball herself, no one having bothered to do so this time, apparently believing she was done.

"Mary darling! Won't you join us for tea?"

A glance over her shoulder revealed Sir Richard to be leaning against one of the posts that held up the net, wiping the sweat that gleamed on his brow with the back of one hand, the other fidgeting with his racket as he watched her interaction with interest.

"Tea? In this heat?" she replied, breathlessly. "I wouldn't say no to water, if you could send someone-would you, Sir Richard?"

"Indeed, I wouldn't, Lady Mary."

A footman hastened to fulfil their request, and they drank, silently, too thirsty for conversation. After dabbing at her own perspiring forehead and smoothing her hair back into place-she must look a fright-Mary returned to her position at the service line and bounced the ball several times before she met his eye across the court. The slow-stretching grin that made the dimples appear making her more confident in her decision to go against what was expected of her by the party. Especially now that most of them had dispersed.

"Honestly, how could anyone expect me to quit after just one game?" she asked, rhetorically. "I have to at least try to score, so I can come out of this with a shred of dignity intact, haven't I?"

As far as Richard was concerned, Lady Mary came out of their challenge with much more dignity than that. Of course, to the outsider's eye, the rather severe score of six games in his favor when she just scored two only proved that idiotic perspective of how ill-bred and ruthless and generally ungentlemanly he could be. However, Richard cared little about the opinion of people who only considered this beautiful game as one of their private distractions, who never played a single serious competition in their lives.

Fortunately, Lady Mary was a different creature entirely and had won her own service with authority. What she lacked in stamina and strength, she compensated for with flawless technique and a keen sense of observation: she noticed that a dolorous right ankle-the legacy of a rather confused and muddy rugby game decades ago-impeded him from changing directions with great agility at a run. When she won her service for the second time, she even gained enough confidence to contest his own service, taking the advantage twice before conceding her defeat only when he served two aces in a row. From that moment, exhaustion began to take its toll on the young woman and Richard did not need to assert his strength to conclude the set.

To be honest, the fighting spirit that she had displayed throughout the game was so refreshing-and a feast for the eyes, he had to admit, admiring the way a lock of dark hair had fallen from her coif to hang over her forehead. For a second, when he took her service for the first time, he was tempted to let her take his service back and served less forcefully. He did not make it twice as a pair of dark eyes considered him furiously, although when it was finished and he strode to the net, racket slung over his shoulder, for the traditional handshake, he almost wished he'd braved her anger and prolonged the match.

"Good game, Lady Mary," he said. For the first time since he had begun to play tennis as part of the aristocracy, these words were perfectly sincere.

Accustomed as Mary was to receiving compliments, something about Sir Richard's low rasping tone gave her the feeling that he was not accustomed to doling them out.

"Praise, indeed, from the former university champion," she couldn't resist teasing him as she accepted his hand. She was conscious of the moistness of her own palm from having been clutched firmly around her tennis racket, but then so was his, and he held it for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

A delicate, yet deeply reassuring press of her gloved fingertips which she could still feel, two years later.

She pulled away.

"Thank you, Sir Richard," she said, feeling out of breath once again.

She leaned her racket against the net for other players, then started back up the slope which was hemmed on either side by hedges. A glance over her shoulder revealed him to be following, a hand hooked casually in his trouser pocket.

"It probably wasn't the most exciting game you ever played," she said, "but I appreciated the challenge. I can't recall the last time I had an opponent who actually cared about winning. Except for my sister Edith, but that's more a sibling rivalry than an athletic one."

Richard chuckled. This detail made her more real, just like the barely suppressed swear words had earlier in the game. Behind the icy demeanour she displayed when trouncing Lady Astor at croquet or the rather fiery stubbornness she exhibited during their own game, these little cracks in the armor revealed the true Lady Mary, and Richard could not help but be curious.

Very curious.

"I had the feeling you would never have forgiven me if I had let you win. Was I mistaken?"

Under her hat, her reddened cheeks betrayed her exertion and gave her an endearingly healthy look.

"Why, Sir Richard," she replied, trying not to let her voice sound as unsettled by how accurately he'd read her; he would have to be a shrewd observer of people for his job. "Are you so keen to remain in all your tennis opponents' good graces?"

"Not always…" he admitted with a shrug. "My opponents' feelings aren't my main preoccupation, with two notable exceptions: I always respect a worthy player, and I like a good challenge."

They had almost joined the rest of the party who strolled lazily around, china tea cups in hand, providing a rather surreal image of British aristocracy's intemporality, far from the woes of war.

"When that's the case," he went on, "I care little whether I win or lose, believe it or not."

"Then it would seem we have that much in common, at least," Mary replied. She took a glass of lemonade from a footman who approached with a tray and savored the cool tartness of it. "Do you enjoy other sports, or is it strictly tennis?"

"You should rephrase the question and ask which sports I don't enjoy." Richard took a glass for himself, managing, in spite of the heat and how parched his throat was, not to swallow it in a single gulp.

Mary caught herself watching the curve of his throat as he tilted his head back to drink, the bob of his Adam's apple between the open collar of his shirt as he swallowed. She shook herself internally, dragged her eyes back up to his. The man certainly had no trouble talking about himself, did he? Any other would have politely responded to her question by giving a simple answer, and then asking about her other sporting interests.

"Well, Sir Richard. You'll find I don't often do what I'm told I should do." She smirked and took another drink. "Do you ride?"

"Ah, the inevitable question…"

And the one he tried to answer more or less diplomatically each time a member of the upper-class decided to test the newcomer who was in their circles. The question was asked in a wondering and polite tone that could fool one into believing it was an innocuous inquiry when it was their way of evaluating their interlocutor's education-or lack thereof.

"To be honest, cricket and riding are probably the two sports I avoid at all costs." He considered his now empty glass, tracing the edge with his index finger absently. "Horses and I don't get along very well."

This was a euphemism. Admitting he had been afraid of the damn beasts since an overprotective mare chased him during a hike in the the Highlands as a teenager would be closer to the truth.

"And, even if Coubertin invented the pentathlon for the Olympics," he went on more cockily, eager to change the tone of the conversation, "I have difficulty considering horse riding a true sport like tennis, rugby or swimming."

"Of course only a person who doesn't ride would say so," Mary replied, arching her eyebrows. However, she could see Sir Richard was self-conscious about this turn in the conversation: he held his shoulders a little stiffer, his voice was huskier, and his hands were restless, fidgeting with his glass.

"No matter!" She smiled, and was relieved to see him relax slightly. "Few people do ride these days, with so many horses requisitioned by the Army. We haven't had a hunt at Downton since the war broke out."

She became suddenly attentive to the rim of her own glass. Riding to hounds, of course, made her think of a life altered long before Matthew boarded the train to France.

Swallowing the knot in her throat with the last of her lemonade, she said, "But that's rather grim talk for a fine day, isn't it? Thank goodness for house parties and tennis to remind us that not everything in the world has changed."

Richard bit his lip pensively, trying not to frown at this latest remark. The mere fact that he was attending one of these house parties was the proof that everything had changed. Before this nightmarish summer of 1914, he had been a regular guest of the Austrian embassy, planning to strengthen the links between his company and a Hungarian one. Before the war, he spent as much time on the continent as in Britain. Before the war, he had sent journalists to follow the Tour de France and give lively reports that had transformed the sport event into an heroic tale and fascinated the readers.

Now, he was stuck in the damn British isles, deprived of the sporting events on which he had built a good part of his empire, forced to serve the government propaganda machine in spite of his very vocal reluctance. Stupidities like German bullets don't hurt left a bitter taste in the mouth when every day the letters reached families all over Britain and announced that a son or husband had perished. Idiocies like Defend the British freedom and democracy seemed so absurd when you were privy, as he was, to the many discussions, and ambitions, of their fearless leaders. In the first months of the war, he had refused to join the chorus - he had friends over there, friends whose sons had been sent to the front, foreign-born friends who used to be welcome everywhere in London. And now these same friends were called barbaric because their own rulers were perfect idiots. Worse, openly worrying about their well-being when he heard about the blockade strategy of the British Navy in the corridors of Parliament would make a traitor out of him.

Yet, Richard had jobs to maintain, investors to satisfy, and papers to sell, so the realist in him won over the pacifist. After months of resistance, he had caved, to a certain point, and the dirtiest gossip became the main topic of his papers. In wartime, people needed some diversion, after all, and the upper-class shenanigans provided that in scads.

"It's nice, indeed, to see that some kind of normalcy can be maintained in a world gone mad," he replied, his words ringing false to his own ears.

There was something in his voice, a tautness in the low rasp, which gave Mary the sense that he was not fully convinced by his own words, even as her heart clutched as though by a tight fist. A world gone mad.

A world where, at this very moment, Matthew might lie dead in a trench.

Sir Richard must surely share her fear for his own friends and loved ones.

"Oh dear," she said, smiling against the pull of tears. "Suddenly I'm feeling the effects of our game. I should probably go and recover, if I'm to make it through dinner without nodding off at the table."

In spite of her polite smile, Richard thought Lady Mary looked as if she had been hit by lightning.. As it was for so many of those gathered here, the ugly reality outside the dreamy confines of Cliveden was never far. Fleeing from ghosts was a never ending run, unlike tennis, an unwinnable run. Richard closed his eyes in understanding and did his best to look as if he had bought her white lie.


	2. 1916 (II)

Pleading fatigue had brought the increasingly uncomfortable post-tennis conversation with Sir Richard to an end, yet physical exhaustion was not the enemy Mary feared at dinner. He knew it, too, she suspected, had seen straight through her with those piercing blue eyes. Newspaperman's eyes, expertly reading between the black and white lines printed on the page. Although it was a comfort to be understood and not pitied-her mother's looks of watery confusion across the table at home had provided the impetus for her to accept the invitation to Cliveden-at the same time her natural discomfiture at being too transparent to anyone made her think she ought never to have come.

Despite the sunlight which streamed in through the tall windows at half past eight in the evening, and the glow from the electric chandeliers above, illuminating every gilt surface-which seemed to be everything in the room, right down to the sheen of the gold upholstery on the chairs-the shadows of war were not entirely dispelled from Lady Astor's dining room. Viscount Gillingham, an old family friend, was seated to Mary's right and spoke continually-to her and to Lady Phillips on his other side-of his son's service aboard the _HMS Iron Duke_. Mary struggled to reconcile the image of Tony Foyle, whom she had not seen since he wore sailor suits Lady Gillingham scolded him for muddying whilst sailing toy boats in the stream at garden party, with a Royal Navy officer who might at that very moment be blown to bits by a German torpedo. Which of course took her right back to the trenches with Matthew.

As bad as the reminders from the men were, it was worse when the ladies departed for the drawing room to leave them to port and cigars and grisly talk unsuitable for feminine ears. Mary would rather Lord Gillingham's hard truths than the Viscountess' chatter over the bridge table about the trivialities of Navy life Tony wrote home to her about, such as meals in the mess hall being worse than anything he complained of in his Eton days and if only he could ask her to send some of cook's biscuits as he did as a schoolboy. _You really ought to write him, Mary,_ Lady Gillingham said, _I know dear Tony would be delighted to catch up with you._ But of course all she could think of was that she ought to write Matthew…attempt to set things to rights between them…

And why didn't he come home?

She was relieved when the door which connected the dining and drawing rooms opened and Sir Richard strode through ahead of the other men. He immediately took another drink from the footman who approached with a tray. Was he, too, wearied by the effort of keeping up appearances at these parties?

Thankfully the game had just come to an end and she stood, smoothing the black lace overlay of her midnight blue gown.

Richard lifted the glass to his lips, scanning the room for a pair of brown eyes. A small smile formed when he noticed how swiftly Lady Mary excused herself from her bridge table and approached him.

She was stunning in her evening gown.

Even so-even though he had bolted from his seat the second their host decided it was high time to join the ladies again-Richard joined her with measured steps. There was no need to attract more unwanted attention than their little match already had.

"Your bridge partners look quite solemn. It's a nice change from the blind triumphalism in the dining room. Did the ladies have a more sensible conversation about recent events than the gentlemen?"

Ordinarily, Richard enjoyed the ritual that followed dinner in aristocratic circles. The few minutes during which men were left to themselves provided a rare opportunity for freer speech. The women's absence allowed the gentlemen to abandon the cloak of decency-one might be tempted to talk about hypocrisy-and port tended to loosen minds and tongues. In these moments, it was easy to gather valuable information and even secure a contract, a handshake between gentlemen being as official and definitive as a formal signature at the bottom of a page.

However, since the start of the war, Richard tended to find this time less enjoyable, even increasingly unbearable. The short-sighted nationalism that disguised itself as respectable patriotism unnerved him to no end. Would it hurt so much to admit that the British objectives in this war were as sinister and cynical as the German ones? Would it be wrong to say that the strategy used in the Somme since the beginning of July was an utter disaster? More and more often, Richard found himself silent, smoking his cigar absently, willing the minutes away like he used to do as a schoolboy. Tonight was not an exception.

Mary's eyes widened slightly at his statement and the lack of patriotism it hinted at, but whatever his views were-and they couldn't be _too_ radical, could they, or the Astors wouldn't have included him in their party?-she was determined not to think of the war any more tonight.

"Recent events?" she said. "Not unless the gentlemen discussed the ones in the latest _Sketch_."

Sir Richard's gaze had drifted downward from her face and she followed it, discovering that her gloved fingers were fidgeting with her black beaded necklace. She lowered her hand and smiled.

"Of course I trounced them all at bridge," she said.

Lady Mary was not a very good liar or, at least, she was a very imperfect one. Granted, her poker face was masterful, from her hard stare to her raised eyebrow. However, her gloved hands told another story entirely, stating clearly that war was not a topic she desired to broach, this evening no more than this afternoon.

Good, that made two of them.

"Since you still seem to be in a competitive mood, have you considered my proposition for tomorrow?" He followed her lead and changed the subject happily. The less he was involved in talk about the war, the less likely he was to sabotage is hard-earned new social position with one of the many non-patriotic comments that burnt his tongue at times. "Would you like to team up with me for the doubles competition organized by our generous hosts?"

A laugh from the direction of the bridge table turned Mary's head; she just had time to glimpse Sylvia, who'd tried to lure her from the tennis courts earlier, looking down her long nose at her before she masked the expression with a smile. It was all Mary could do to restrain an eyeroll. No matter what was going on in the world, nothing attracted attention like two members of the opposite sex acknowledging each other's existence. She probably ought to refuse him if she didn't want Mama to greet her return to Downton with an inquisition.

As she returned her attention to Sir Richard, who had slipped his hands into his trouser pockets in a self-conscious mannerism of his own, she saw, too, that an expression of almost boyish hopeful expectation softened his sharp features. If one was going to invite a bit of gossip, who better with than a man who made a living off controlling it?

And if it was for diversion that she'd agreed to attend Lady Astor's party, what better than sport? The allure of competition was much too appealing to resist-she could almost taste the sweetness of their certain victory-as was the allure of the man before her, on whom lingered the earthy, masculine scent of cigar.

She had made up her mind to accept his invitation, but of course she couldn't be _too_ straight-forward about it.

"That depends on why you want to partner with me," she said. "Do you think I'll improve your image as a ruthless, overly competitive-"

"You two!" Nancy Astor's American twang interrupted, and she placed a hand on Richard's shoulder in that too-familiar way Americans had. "Why don't you continue your _tête_ -à- _tête_ over a waltz? The orchestra's all warmed up in the ballroom!"

Richard watched with amusement as Lady Mary's face half froze in disapproval. Obviously, in spite of her American origins-before dinner, Lady Astor had commented that his tennis partner was half American, the daughter of a buccaneer from Cincinatti, no less-the young woman did not agree with the more relaxed and familiar manners from the other side of the Atlantic. To be honest, he had needed a full stay of several weeks when he had first traveled to America as a young journalist eager to see the world for himself to get used to these habits, and another stay a few years later to be able to reciprocate naturally. Now, he barely paid attention, and responded in kind.

"Well, Lady Astor, you do know I am quite picky about music…" He tried the easy way out. Of course, he wanted to spend more time in Lady Mary's exclusive company, but he did not wish to invite scrutiny. To this day, he had been a perfect disappointment for the people on the look-out for the merest gossip, and he intended to remain such a disappointment.

Not that he lived like a monk.

He just was a discreet man, and a hard working one. A middle-class man who had ascended the stairs of social hierarchy simply because he could not stand to work for people more stupid than he was. And there were a lot of them, protected in their ivory towers thanks to their birthrights, presently leading the British youth to the slaughterhouse because of their stupidity.

"Do your toes still hurt from that waltz with Lady Fitzgerald? It was three years ago!" Lady Astor playfully mocked him. "Have no fear, Strauss is banned until the end of the war, so you have no excuse." She gave him a little shove to the shoulder. "Now go, I need competent dancers as much as I need good players tomorrow."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to test what kind of partners we make in the ballroom before we commit to the tennis court," Mary said with a shrug; it was one thing to agree to do a thing to please a hostess, but best not to appear too eager-to Sir Richard as much as to the other guests.

Not that she didn't want to dance. She adored it, and opportunities to do so these days were almost as rare as opportunities to ride. But after the gossip she'd already been subject to thanks to Edith, she couldn't be too careful.

Which included not being left behind by the rest of the party. She turned to follow the others out of the ballroom, but couldn't resist a glance back at Sir Richard as he fell into step behind her, setting his empty wine glass on a side table.

"Or are you worried about injured toes? It might be more fair to the other players if you're handicapped, though I don't make a habit of treading on my partners' feet."

"I never suggested you did, I only voiced my reservations about this puzzling enthusiasm for waltzes that are a true challenge to anyone but the _bona fide_ Viennese aristocracy," he answered pleasantly, keeping a reasonable distance between them - to respect propriety and to admire the way the dark blue dress fit her thin structure.

Her gait was fascinating, betraying years of stubborn control of her every moves. Part of this came from her upbringing, surely. However, anyone with a sense of observation could see how much this control came from her own character.

Lady Mary wanted to project nothing less than an image of a perfectly controlled and studied allure.

As they walked into the ballroom, the first notes of the _Waltz of the Flowers_ resounded - playing Tchaikovsky could be considered patriotic, in honor to the courageous allies of the British, or the idiots who had dragged them to the slaughterhouse, depending on the point of view. Richard shook his head. He really should stop harboring such bitter feelings, especially when he was surrounded by people who believed the justness of the Allies' cause.

He still followed Lady Mary, two steps behind her. Under the dark blue satin, he could see the subtle movement of her shoulderblades. Two long strides were enough to catch up with her and invite her before anybody else could.

She accepted without hesitation, placed her hand in his upturned palm, and allowed him to lead her onto the parquet dance floor where several other couples already twirled to the Tchaikovsky tune. As his other hand settled at her back and hers on his shoulder she felt the muscle beneath his lapel. Banishing the image that leapt to mind of his powerful tennis serve, she arched an eyebrow at him and said, "Since you don't share our enthusiasm for waltzes, Sir Richard, what sort of dancing do you prefer?"

The question was innocuous enough for appropriate conversation over a dance, containing just the right note of flirtation, yet Mary meant it in part to tweak the criticism of the aristocracy that had underlined so much of the publisher's remarks.

"Actually, I'm not contrary to waltzes on the whole," Richard answered as he began to move slightly to get into the right tempo and start to waltz, leading his partner to the middle of the ballroom, careful to avoid any embarrassing collision. "Only to Strauss. His tempos are far too erratic to dance properly. On the other hand, polkas, danced with the right partner, can be real fun."

Unwanted memories of evenings at the Austrian embassy in London, of joyous visits to his friends' homes in Vienna, Opatija came back to his mind. The furtive image of blonde widow he met back then imposed itself. There might have been something, if only he had been able to visit her in the summer of 1914 as he'd promised. He hoped she and her children were not suffering too much from the blockade at this very moment.

_Elsa…_

Richard focused on the music and his current partner once more. Lady Mary, in spite of the rigidity of her posture, was a very skilled dancer. She was light as a feather in his arms and followed his lead perfectly.

"Generally, I tend like anything America, North or South, sends our way. And, at the risk of sounding like some kind of a caricature, I do enjoy reeling very much."

The latter information delighted Mary, though she managed to squelch too eager an outburst.

"Well, I'll admit I'm not devastated that Strauss is deemed unpatriotic these days," she deadpanned. Noticing the deepening of the lines about the corners of Sir Richard's eyes and mouth, however, which surely indicated some unspoken feeling on the subject, she quickly changed it.

"As for the American music, my sister Sybil's been known to play a little ragtime." Grandmamma was always sending them sheet music, much to their music teacher's chagrin. "Of course I'd never admit to dancing to it."

She had, though, with Patrick; he'd insisted, before his ill-fated voyage to America, on learning the dances he would encounter there.

That was a sad thought-not as sad as it should be, but sadder than it perhaps had been, especially in light of current events-and she allowed herself to give in to that happier emotion her partner's earlier statement had stirred. It was not difficult to do, for despite his remarks about the difficulty of waltzing, he performed the steps flawlessly, his leading arm steady and his footsteps sure, graceful in that purely masculine way.

"Believe it or not," she said, "I like nothing so much as a Ghillies ball. My father's cousin Hugh, the Marquess of Flintshire, has one every summer at Duneagle. I've worn out many a pair of dancing shoes reeling."

This new piece of information was most fascinating. From the rigid way Lady Mary waltzed, it was difficult to imagine her spinning and hopping around to the sound of the fiddle. On the other hand, she had already demonstrated her athleticism earlier today.

More and more, the young woman appeared to be quite a challenging puzzle and Richard found himself thinking that he would not mind spending as much time as needed to solve this one.

"Duneagle near Inverness?" he asked pleasantly, and she nodded the affirmative. "Our paths must have crossed before, then, since my family on my mother's side is from the area."

Sometimes, the world was smaller than one could have thought.

"Usually, I try to spend a few weeks up there each summer. Before the war, the Cairngorms were my training ground for more challenging mountains in the continent."

Unconsciously, Richard's arm tensed and drew his partner closer, just a little.

Mary doubted, very much, that their paths had ever come very near each other, that his people were any acquaintance of hers, but she did not, of course, say so.

"What a funny coincidence," was her only reply as the Flower Waltz crescendoed to its minor key transition, carried by the sonorous cellos and violas. She told herself the lapse of conversation was necessary as the nearer proximity increased the likelihood of one of them treading on the other's toes, requiring greater concentration on the dance steps, rather than an effect of Sir Richard's more intimate hold on her. She felt her shoulderblades twitch in response to the increased pressure of his hand below them. If he sensed her resistance to him, the pleasant expression on his face didn't show it, though after he twirled her to the trill of the returning woodwinds with the main theme, the more respectable distance between them was restored.

Smiling up at her partner, no longer worried about a misstep, Mary said, "Which do you find the more difficult climb: the Alps, or English society?"

The sudden tension in her shoulderblades did not go unnoticed under his fingertips. He was reminded of what Elsa had told him with mock seriousness three years ago, that _their lot_ was not used to dance as close to their partner as _his lot_. If he remembered correctly, the events before the war tended to become quite blurred lately, he had ignored her admonishment, which had granted him a summer invitation he never had been able to honour.

Contrary to Elsa, Lady Mary was not a widow, mother of two, accustomed to more intimate contact, so he schooled his arm into a more proper position, instantly missing the warm feeling that the close proximity had elicited.

_It had been a while since he last enjoyed the thrill of proper courtship._

_It had been a while since a woman last awoke his curiosity._

"Well, in spite of the common use of the word _climbing_ in each expression, these are different situations entirely," he answered honestly. "Climbing the social ladder demands quite a lack of modesty and a fair amount of self-confidence, over-confidence even, I might say. On the contrary, humility and prudence are the key the moment you start climbing a mountain."

Another _crescendo_ started, and Richard had to focus to avoid another twirling couple.

"It's what keeps me grounded," he admitted, surprising himself with his level of honesty.

Sir Richard was perhaps the most bluntly honest person she had ever encountered-certainly over a waltz-and as a person who never said what she meant, or meant what she said, she wasn't sure whether this characteristic was fascinating or frightening. The former, she decided, at least for now: truthfulness seemed so contradictory for a man who'd made his fortune perpetuating society rumors.

And it would be a change-such a much-needed change-to for once know exactly where she stood with a man.

"Are you feeling overly-confident and imprudent at the moment?" she asked.

Damn-his gesture had not gone totally unnoticed, innocent and unconscious as it was. On the other hand, if her flirtatious question was any indication, Lady Mary did not seem to mind the attention.

Accepting this invitation to Cliveden might prove most interesting in the end.

"More intrigued and hopeful, I'd say," he answered, using the last _crescendo_ of the waltz to pull her a little closer - not entirely for courting purposes since he always found it easier to follow a quickening tempo this way. This time, there was no tension in her shoulderblades, and he relished the sight of her slightly tilted back head.

For the first time this evening, he let his eyes wander lower than her eyes and fix on her lips.

She smiled. _Intrigued_ was the correct answer, if there was one; for women like her, intrigue was as much an art to be learned as painting or music-and a more useful one, if one wanted to attract a husband and still maintain the appropriate boundaries between the sexes. Mary had always been aware of her own mastery, and it occurred to her now that if this houseparty were a part of the London season before the war...before Pamuk...before Matthew, Richard Carlisle-handsome and rich and with high social standing even though he'd climbed to it rather than been born to it-would have been precisely the man she would have hoped would be intrigued by her.

But she noticed how his gaze left hers to settle further down-on her lips-and she hoped he didn't feel her pulse hammer in her wrist beneath the pad of his thumb as she saw herself at Sybil's ball, in Matthew's arms. He'd spoken of hope, too, and when he'd led her off the dance floor and out onto the verandah, she hadn't stopped him kissing her beneath the starlit summer sky.

Did he look back now and think of that night? Or had he found another waltz partner, another woman's lips to kiss?

The music ended, though Mary's skirt twirled about their legs, and her head continued to spin for a moment after they stopped. Sir Richard's eyes returned to hers, and she smiled.

"In that case I hope I don't disappoint," she said. "Especially not on the tennis court tomorrow."

"From what I've witnessed this afternoon, I'm sure you won't," he answered, more than happy to cling to the safer topic of tennis. He had almost been carried away for a moment and needed to regain his footing again. "I've heard that Lord Gillingham's daughter is playing with a cousin, in spite of her father's rather vehement opposition. Apparently, sipping Lord Astor's champagne while commenting on the fraternization of the Allied and German troops on Christmas, 1914 is deemed more respectable and patriotic than engaging in an innocent tennis tournament. As if rugby games aren't being organized between the French and the New Zealanders as we speak."

Sarcasm and sport were a much safer topics indeed.

At the other end of the ballroom, a familiar short and broad-shouldered silhouette caught his eyes. Already, the men gathered around the white-haired man. Lloyd George knew how to make an impression. Suddenly, Richard could barely hear the music to which the oblivious couples danced, the schemes he had been elaborating this morning before meeting Lady Mary for the first time returning to precedence in his mind.

Richard did not like the Welshman's personality, but he had to accept that Lloyd George was the man for the job. Wilson's proposition of a ceasefire came either too late or too early - too much blood had been shed, yet still it was not enough. The only foreseeable future was a quick victory, and only a man like Lloyd George could grant Britain such a victory, not those incompetent fools presently leading the strategy.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Richard said. "Our brand new Secretary of State for War just arrived, fashionably late if I may say so, and there are a few questions I need to ask him." He tried to look apologetic enough when his mind was entirely focused on professional preoccupations now. If Lady Mary was half the woman he believed she was, she would understand this slight misstep.

The sooner the war would end, the better off everyone would be.


	3. 1916 (III)

Lady Mary's hips felt almost fragile under his caressing fingertips. Her lips were supple under his chaste kiss. His own control held by a thread and he had to remind himself that his tennis partner was a young and proper lady, and not one of the women he was more accustomed to courting and bedding.

She wasn't Elsa either…

Yet, in the twilight freshness, in the middle of a maze of shrubberies, Richard Carlisle, a man of many conquests and loose morals found himself wrapped around a girl's finger, contenting himself with a light but insistent brush of lips when he wanted more.

So much more.

A cradle robber he was not - at least he didn't think he was - yet he couldn't stop himself from being intrigued and fascinated by the enigma of Mary Crawley. Since when did he prefer the challenge of a probably fruitless courtship to the certainty of a satisfying affair? He really was in trouble if he'd already begun to think that way.

Though, as shy lips opened slightly, allowing him to deepen the kiss just a little more, Richard found he did enjoy thinking that way. For the first time since 1914, he realized how deep a void Elsa had left, how much he needed to fill it.

_How on earth did they end up here?_

* * *

Sir Richard's fingers gripped her hips more gently than she would have imagined from the way he played tennis. He kissed more chastely, too, though she wasn't sure why she would have assumed otherwise about him, except that in her-albeit limited-experience with men, the one who kissed her after so short an acquaintance had not done so with anything that remotely resembled chastity.

_Two years_.

Two years had passed since Matthew kissed her, she feeling guilty all the while about the secret she kept from him. Sir Richard, too, clearly believed her more innocent than she was, as ladies like her should be. Rather than stir up that old guilt, however, his soft lips, the delicate patterns his fingetips traced over the fine white fabric of her dress, reminded her of a part of herself that had been neglected, as so many things had since the war began. And she sensed, as well, a deliberation in his movements. He was holding back. In control of himself.

Experienced was one word that came to mind. Certainly he was older than Matthew or Mr. Pamuk. But weren't all the men who weren't off fighting?

On the tennis court today, Sir Richard had proved that age was no barrier. He was confident, didn't second-guess himself or waste a second when it counted-traits which Mary knew she herself did not possess in abundance, either on or off the court. In the tennis match, she'd trusted in the steadiness he radiated, and in turn she'd trusted herself.

Deciding to take the same approach now, she let her own fingers rest against his chest, brushing the edge of the v neck of his jumper, and parted her lips to him amid the shrubberies.

This was _not_ the place or the activity she'd imagined spending the final evening of the Cliveden house party.

_How in heaven's name had they got here?_

The day had started most normally, in the midst of the agitation of the pre-tournament hours. The Astors' guests had donned their tennis whites and enjoyed a quick breakfast on the terrace. Footmen came and went, bringing fresh orange juice or walking away hastily with the equipment some players did not bother to carry for themselves to the tennis grounds.

When Richard went to sign up for the tournament, he noticed, with no little satisfaction, the surprised expression on the face of Lady _So-and-So_ \- for the life of him, he could not remember the name of the blonde who was making the rota. Apparently, his reputation as an unsufferable tennis partner preceded him, and it was quite nice to show this _lot_ that he could still find one willing to play with him. Resisting the urge to cast his usual mocking glance at the Duke's or Earl's daughter-turned-into-secretary for a day, he duly noted the hour for their first game and stepped away, not without cringing at the girl's poor imitation of secretarial cheerfulness, or the idea she had of it.

As he walked to his partner with long strides, Richard made a mental note to relate the scene to Miss Fields, just to relish her reaction to the anecdote, and join her in her always measured but pointed sarcasm over morning reports.

From the very first day he had stepped into this world, he had noticed how much this _lot_ enjoyed to perform these tedious tasks for _fun_ , how much they prided themselves for behaving like normal people as long as it remained an exception, for Christmas, for a tennis game, for a charity…

Fortunately, Lady Mary seemed to be part of another race entirely. Clad in the same white tennis dress as the day before, she examined the ropes of her racket with precise and knowing gestures, not even bothering to be part of the ridiculous volunteers who played at being people they were obviously not.

"Our first match is in half an hour," he simply announced once he had joined her on the side of the field.

Mary looked up from her inspection of her tennis racket, squinting into the sun at her partner. "Good," she replied. "We shan't have long to wait."

Lowering her racket to her side, her other hand came up to discreetly dab the perspiration from her collarbones. Already in the early afternoon the day promised to be warm-hotter than the previous day-and she was relieved they'd have a chance to secure an early lead in the tournament before the heat took its toll. Not, she thought, looking at the current pairs on the court, who panted as they chased after balls, mopping brows between serves, that she expected to be more adversely affected than their potential opponents.

"Did you see who we're up against on the rota?"

"Would you be very cross if I confessed I didn't bother to look ?" Richard replied with a sheepish expression.

Not that he felt very sheepish… He still had a difficult time remembering who half these people were - not just the would-be secretary - and to be honest, he didn't particularly care to learn. Besides, a little surprise would spice up what promised to be a very dull tournament, if the players' moves on the nearby field were any indication.

Without another word, Richard adjusted the laces of his shoes and reached for his racket and white towel which he had placed on the bench before going to register.

"Let's go and warm up a bit, shall we?" he suggested, carelessly swinging both items over his shoulder.

"Now that's not what I expected from you at all." Mary replied, falling into step with him. "I would have thought you'd be the type to know everything you could about an opponent. Are you so confident in our prowess on the court?" She battled a twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Or couldn't you stand to spend another moment exchanging pleasantries with Lady Tapsell ?"

She'd stolen a glance or two at him when he'd gone to sign them up for the tournament, intrigued by the contrast in his demeanor, which was so easy with her, and in his much more stilted interaction with the wife of the respected physician. Of course, Mary could hardly blame him for not warming to her-not many people did. But neither was she so deluded about her own charms that she thought many people as comfortable with her as Richard seemed to be. She liked it that way.

"So that's her name…" As thankful as he was for the piece of information, he was pretty sure he would forget the name as soon as he would step into the court. "And to answer your previous question, I only investigate an opponent when they're worthy of such a task."

Richard pushed the chain link door open for Mary, but had to stop her from entering the court as a poorly volleyed ball went sideways and ended its course with a resounding hit on the court door.

"Like I said, not worth the bother," he mumbled as he threw the ball back at the awkward red-head who assaulted them with his most sincere apologies.

Richard had grabbed Mary's arm to draw her back from the wayward ball, but released her as soon as he'd seen her out of harm's way. Still, she hung back from entering the court, greeting the flustered Sir Neville Mayfield's daughter from the distance.

"Hello, Florence," she said, then nodded to the slightly younger ruddy-haired man responsible for the missed volley in the first place. "Are you and Freddy in the two o'clock match?"

The brother and sister duo gave the affirmative, and Mary said, "We'll see you on the court." She just glimpsed the nervous look they exchanged before she turned back to Richard, and said in a low tone with a raised brow, "I think that will do for our warm up."

"First rule, Lady Mary. A good sportsman, or sportswoman, never eschew the warm up," Richard answered, not resisting the urge to wink at her. "But, I quite agree with you: the first match will be no trouble."

* * *

As predicted, the opposition proved weak, to say the least. After a rather slow start in the initial match that resulted in the loss of one of the only games of the day, and the exchange of more than a few furious and dark glances on her part, and the utterance of a few chosen words on his, they found their pace, and cut their way to the finals in a merciless manner.

Six-two.

The Mayfields dreamt for ten minutes before being sent back to their studies.

Six-zero.

Lord Hepworth and Lady Cavendish did not even exist. To be fair, they seemed to be more interested in each other than in the tournament.

Six-one.

Major Evans, who was on leave, and his fiancé Lady North, made a good start, winning the first game, but crumbled quickly when Richard started to serve more seriously.

Their forward march had been unstoppable, only perturbed by his occasional lapses in concentration provoked by the way the white sport dress fitted her slim frame as Lady Mary ran after a ball and jumped sideways with the elegance of a ballerina to end the point with a masterful volley.

Inevitably, the following point was always lost by his fault, which gained him a dark look.

The few points after were all won with ungentlemanly smashes and aces, which gained him a bright and almost mischievous smile.

Lady Mary only played to win.

Richard liked that.

Very much.

And the deliberate way she brushed away the beads of perspiration on her face was most endearing.

There had never been a doubt in Mary's mind that they would advance to the championship match, yet somehow this assurance did not at all detract from the exilaration of victory. Looking up at Richard after the semifinal, the sweat glistening on his forehead and reddened cheeks no doubt mirroring the exertion on her own visage, she knew it was equally the thrill of partnership.

However, when Waldorf Astor announced that their opposing tean was none other than Larry Grey and Alice MacClare, she wilted somewhat, aware almost for the first time of the oppressive heat.

"Oh dear."

"We've seen Mr Grey and Lady Newtonmore in action," said Richard. "I'll grant you they're better than the other pairs we've come up against, but they're still no match for us."

Mary shook her head. "It's not that. Larry's father, Lord Merton, is my godfather. And Alice is married to my cousin James."

"And?" Richard asked, unable to hide his confusion at his partner's unexpected hesitation. "Should we lose out of… deference? Respect? Regard?"

He knelt on the perfectly maintained grass to adjust his laces. His white trousers and shirt were already stained in various parts because of a few slides and dives, and there was no point anymore in taking care of his clothes.

"Should I remind you of your reaction when you noticed I was going easy on you yesterday?" He talked again as he straightened up and stretched lazily from toes to shoulders. "Showing respect is a tricky exercise, you know."

Mary snorted, amused by his undisguised aborrance of the mere suggestion of conceding-although she did have an odd sense that he would defer to her, if she asked him. That he wanted to do the proper thing.

"Of course not," she assured him. "I'm only disappointed that I shall have to feel slightly guilty for trouncing them when I really want to revel in our total victory."

Her resolve to win with a more ladylike humility was immediately put to the test when they shook hands across the net and Larry inquired after Mary's family, including, of course, Sybil.

"I'm sorry not to see her here," he said. "Mixed doubles would be right up her alley, wouldn't it? Equality of the sexes and all?"

"Now Mr. Grey," said Richard, "if you ask Lord Hepworth, Major Evans, and Mr Mayfield, I'm sure they'd all agree that in the case of Lady Mary's backhand, the fairer sex is in fact _superior_."

Alice gave Mary a significant look across the net, but Larry-predictably, was not at all impressed with Richard's compliment of his partner. He looked, quite literally, down his long nose at him, one black brow imperiously arched as his eyes swept Richard's grass-stained tennis clothes.

"I think you may have got your sports mixed up, Carlisle. Remember we're on a tennis court, not a rugby pitch."

That was low, even for Larry, and as Richard's eyes narrowed, the muscle flickering beneath his cheekbone as he clenched his jaw, Mary suspected the younger man had never been more out of his depth. He might have been safer in the line of German fire than on the opposite side of the tennis net to Richard Carlisle's serve.

But although Larry was a poor sport he was not a poor tennis player; after an ace on the first serve he made Richard work to get his revenge for the insult. They struggled to take Larry's service after another reckless slide to the net on Richard's side, only to lose their own service in the following game. At 6-5, Mary found more and more that she had to be quicker on her own feet to compensate for her partner's lack of agility as he began to favor the right ankle she'd noticed the previous day during their own parry. Fortunately, Richard preferred the pleasure of victory to the honor of shutting Larry up. Without a word, he let her take care of the service court and volleying and reduced his role to literal bombardment from the ledger line.

Of course, this had the effect of proving Richard's point about her backhand. His long lifts made Larry and his partner run from one side to another until she could find opportunity to mark the point. It was not very elegant, and a little boring for the audience, but it was terribly efficient. An astucious lob from Richard enabled them to take their opponents' service back, at last.

9-8.

Two more aces from Richard and a volley from her gave them the match point. Another backhand won said match point...

10-8.

Naturally, Larry blamed his own partner for it. So much for equality of the sexes.

"I take back what I said before the match," Mary told Richard as they walked-or limped, in his case-away from the court afterward. "I don't feel the least bit guilty for bruising Larry's ego, and I shall be sure to give Sybil a play-by-play account when I get home," she couldn't resist adding when she saw Larry stalking off. "Although lest you form a misconception about my godfather, Lord Merton isn't at all like his son."

Now why had she said that? As if it mattered to her what a man she'd just met at a house party thought of her godfather?

Why on Earth did she care about what he thought of her godfather? From the nasty result that was Lord Merton's offspring, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that the honorable godfather had forgotten to administer his own son a few much-needed kicks in the arse.

God knew Richard had received some well deserved, literally or metaphorically, from his own father in his time!

"I'd say that Mr. Larry Grey is the typical ingrateful, entitled, spoiled child. A nightmare for any parent, I suppose," he settled for a more diplomatic answer. Richard had the floating impression that it would be better if he did not included Lord Merton in his criticism.

Their paths had led them to the extravagant maze that ornamented the Astors' gardens. Unable to fully appreciate the intricate patterns of box woods, rose bushes and other thujas, he felt grateful for the shade and relative freshness it provided. He motioned to a bench hidden behind a curve.

"I'll need to rest my ankle for a moment, if you don't mind."

Mary did not immediately sit, the seclusion of the bench he'd chosen giving her a moment's pause. Did he mean to get her alone? Once, she would have thrilled at the prospect, but that was years ago now; at times she wondered whether that girl whose heart raced as she led the Duke of Crowborough up to the attic...who dared to take the jump with Mr. Pamuk rather than take the easy road...

Truth be told, despite being weary to her bones these last two years, which was in part consequential to that impulsiveness, there were times when Mary wished she could and reach deep within herself and find the girl she'd been before the War. Before Matthew. If only to move on.

As her eyes followed the sweep of Sir Richard's hand to the bench, however, it occurred to her that she had not felt at all tired today. At least, any tiredness was the result of exertion, and that made for a nice change. A very nice change, indeed, and she had earned this rest.

She sat, at once cooler as the shadow of the hedge fell over her, and gave Richard a sympathetic smile as he lowered himself gingerly onto the bench beside her.

"I hope it's not giving you _too_ much pain. Or if it is, that it was worth the cost of victory. Is it an old injury?"

Richard bit his lower lip as he motioned his foot left and right, up and down, trying to find the right angle that would put a wayward cartilage back into place. The process was difficult, each movement causing a new surge of accute pain, and his tennis partner's attention only added pain to the injury. He surprised himself when he replied amicably, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half-smile.

"Yes, it is. Very muddy rugby match with Glasgow University, against Edinburgh. I was busy scraping the ball in a ruck, and one of our locks thought I was one from the other side, and practised the traditional punishment."

In other words, his room mate Jürgen Von Mentz and his fifteen stones stamped repeatedly on the only visible part of Richard, his foot, only to discover he had got the wrong guy once everybody but his friend got up to their feet. In his defense, the mud that covered the thirty players that day had caused many confusions, making it literally impossible to distinguish team mates from opponents.

"And I'd been too stubborn to cancel a mountain trip to the Cairngorms a little more than a month later, even if the…"

Richard stopped mid-sentence, closing his eyes against the sharp pain, and controled a sigh of relief when he felt that the cartilage was back in place, at last.

"Long story short, it's a constant reminder of my past stubborness."

Although Mary was not unsympathetic to his pain, she couldn't resist a little teasing. "Only of your _past_ stubbornness? You wouldn't be the only one with those," she added, quickly, turning her arm to show him a pale line that ran against the grain of her skin. "I became rather intimately acquainted with a gorse bush my first time riding to hounds when I refused to stay on the road with our groom, Lynch. It took sixteen stitches to patch me up, and my riding jacket couldn't be mended. Mama was terribly vexed."

At the reference to hunting and straying from the path, however, Mary found herself once again thinking of the other time she had not done so. She could not decide whether it was with that or Richard's nearness as he leaned close to inspect her scar, his low chuckle rumbling against her, that made her heartbeat quicken.

"The dressing gong will go soon, I should imagine," she said, standing. "Shall we head back?"

And a tomboy at that…

_Laughing blue eyes stared back at him as he took in the breathtaking scenery that unfolded in front of them from the summit of the Pleisenspitze._

" _Never gets old" he had muttered, still not knowing if he talked about the addicting euphoria that concluded a climbing or Elsa's company._

A raised dark eyebrow brought him bakc to the present. He had barely heard her last sentence, and contented himself to follow Lady Mary's lead as she stood up.

"You're right," he acquiesced, not really knowing what he agreed to. For all he knew, he could be agreeing with his tennis partner to give a toast to the immortality of the British Empire or to give her half his shares in his newspapers.

Richard started to follow Mary as she opened the way to the exit of the maze. They turned left and right. The setting sun filtered through the leaves, caressing her pale skin, giving a red glow to her hair.

With long strides, Richard caught up with his tennis partner and reached for her.

"Mary, wait."

Gently, he took her hand and gave her the lightest kiss.

"To victory."


	4. 1920 (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four days till Downton S5 premieres, and we thought we'd celebrate by breaking this fic's hiatus. In this chapter, we jump forward a few years in Mary and Richard's lives, and you'll also meet an original character. Both authors being huge House of Cards fans, we liked the idea of a post-Mary Richard having a relationship like Frank and Claire Underwood. So feel free to imagine Robin Wright in the role of Elsa, as we did. ;) Enjoy!

“What do you think _Liebling_? Ought I to have worn my old Tyrolian costume?"

Richard smiled at his wife’s clipped tone, with only a trace of German accent, and her icy blue eyes as she considered the unsubtle examination aimed at her since they stepped into Cliveden’s great hall, where the brassy strains of jazz music echoed from another of the vast rooms. He knew the outfit to which she referred, from photographs, although he was sure they did not do the folk costume justice.

“You would have needed to grow back your plaits. We can file away this idea for New Year’s Eve of 1925, though.” He had to show a great amount of restraint not to run a finger through a golden lock of her bobbed hair.

The hollowness of her cheeks, her still far too thin shoulders and wrists had left him speechless when they had met again last spring. Her recently bobbed hair in Louise Brooks fashion - even if it had taken a good few days for him to come to terms with the loss of the long hair he had run his fingers through on New Year’s Eve of 1914 - and her calm determination not to let herself be swallowed by the nightmare of the war had left him reassured.

“True,” she conceded. "Or I could have worn an imitation of an Empress Elisabeth gown. They wouldn't gawk more. As if I were a Tyrolian goat," she went on _sotto voce_ before receiving Lady Astor’s welcome with the effortless grace she had practiced in Vienna and Salzburg and Rijeka before the war broke out.

Richard’s smile widened at the evocation. Fond as she was of her country’s traditions, Elsa displayed a blatant disgust for everything she deemed as ridiculous folklore and only swore by French and American designers. Richard stole a glance at his wife as they were greeted by Lady Astor and his smile widened. He had to admit that the one-shouldered black lace and gold embroidered gown whose train he had to be constantly aware of to avoid stepping on, was worth every penny he had spent on it.

“Elsa, Richard, at last!” Nancy Astor exclaimed. “I’m so sorry to have missed you when you arrived. But you’re the ones to blame. That’s what happens when you make a habit of fashionably late arrivals…” Their hostess hit his arm playfully with her fan, an ivory extravaganza she had acquired at an auction of Japanese artifacts, thanks to Richard’s advice. “It’s such a lovely pleasure to meet you both again. You’ve been quite secretive lately. Not even a proper announcement, you ogre.”

Nancy was literally unstoppable, her teasing smile betraying her pleasure at the rare occasion to make the newspaperman squirm a little. Richard smiled patiently, well decided not to let Nancy win this one. It was one of their little games.

“Even if you wanted something private, which I understand perfectly, given the circumstances,” Lady Astor’s tone was no more than a whisper as she grew more serious, “you should have said something. You know such insignificant details as _nationality_ don’t matter to good friends.”

Richard stole a look at Elsa, trying to erase any trace of sheepishness from his face. The thing was, a marriage was not in their plans at all when they had first come to Cliveden earlier in the summer. He was still reeling from his failed engagement to Mary Crawley, and Elsa, from her losses during the war. Trying to preserve her son, her remaining child, from the uncontrollable hatred that seemed to swallow Central Europe, had brought them closer than they ever dreamt. After all, their history was in the past, a part of another life that had ended brutally in the summer of 1914. Yet, in the course of a few weeks, everything had changed.

As they traveled around Scotland, between Edinburgh, Glasgow and the west coast, where Richard had been renovating a ruined castle since 1911, his first whim ever, blurriness was replaced by extreme clarity. Neither Elsa nor her son wished to return to Austria. And Richard did not want them to go either.

Put like that, it was quite a simple equation, with an equally simple solution.

“I’m afraid I’m the ogre, Lady Astor,” Elsa’s pleasant reply drew him back to the present. “Not Richard. I wanted him all by myself for a few weeks before relinquishing him back to high society.”

Her fingers wrapped tighter around his elbow, an action which did not go unnoticed by their hostess. She shook her head with mock disapprobation.

"Newlyweds..." She moved as though to go to her other guests, but pivoted back to Elsa, as if in afterthought. "And please, do call me Nancy."

Richard took two glasses of champagne from the tray offered by a solemn footman who reminded him unpleasantly of the little weasel back at Downton, and handed one to Elsa. Around them, the inquisitorial stares had vanished, as if their hostess’ warm welcome had made all the suspicions disappear magically.

“So, _Lady Carlisle_ , what do you think of your first official introduction to the esteemed London high society?” he asked, raising his glass in a toast.

“Well, I already knew that the Americans were a far more reasonable bunch than the rest of us in Europe. And my opinion about the legendary English snobbery is only confirmed. Good thing my husband is a Scot,” she answered his toast with her typical half-smile.

Everything was perfect. For once in his life, Richard was tempted to bask in self-satisfaction. As peacetime continued, people would get used to the idea of Elsa. Of course, Lord Northcliffe’s papers would give them hell, and he could already envision the slander and the provocations in the _Daily Mail_. Fortunately, Richard had his own share of dirty secrets that would be sufficient to buy them some well-needed peace.

“Lord and Lady Grantham. Lady Mary Crawley and her husband MrMatthew Crawley,” a footman announced in his unnerving flat and deferring tone.

Richard stifled a sigh. And here he was, thinking that last Christmas had been the last he had been subjected to the Crawleys’ idiocy.

-/-

 

_Downton, Summer 1918_

The constant headache was killing him. For the last few days, Richard had barely slept a wink, due to the German bombings. Not that the bombs were as dangerous as the press made them to be - any propaganda that would fuel the populace resentment was most welcome these days - but the nights when the aircrafts appeared in the skies over London tested one’s moral, even if not as nearly exhausting as what the civilians went through in Germany and Austria.

Richard closed his eyes as Branson slowed the car, gravel crunching under the tyres. Maybe a few days in Yorkshire, away from the capital would do him some good. The car stopped and Brooks opened the door for him, dark circles under the valet’s eyes betraying that he was in dire need a few good nights’ sleep himself. Richard slightly smiled, a silent reply to his valet’s raised eyebrow. The Yorkshire people were far too well-rested and relaxed, indeed… Well, Downton was safe from the bombs, unlike one of Richard’s warehouses. There had been no victims, fortunately, but many spare parts and reserves of paper and ink were unusable now.

Alas, the smile died on his lips as soon as he saw his fiancée pushing her cousin’s chair, wearing a scornful expression as they approached.

_What had he done now?_

Richard did not know what unnerved him most, the fact that Mary spent all day with another man under the guise of helping her dear cousin or the fact that she obviously disapproved his showing up late, as if staying in London to save his employees’ jobs as best as he could instead of assisting with some ridiculous table tennis tournament for the convalescent officers’ good morale was unforgivable.

At the frown that formed on Richard’s lips the instant he set eyes on her, Mary’s fingers clutched tighter around the handles of Matthew’s chair. She knew he considered honesty a compliment, but would it kill him to pretend to be happy to see her? They were, after all, engaged. Finally, he was keen to emphasize every chance he got.

Glancing down as she stopped the wheelchair at the edge of the porch, she noticed the rigid set of Matthew’s shoulders, the lines that formed about the corners of his mouth as he greeted her fiance with cold eyes. Although Mary’s heart quickened in her breast with the hope his body language communicated that he might be jealous, she told herself it was more likely impotent rage at Richard’s open opposition to the war to which Matthew had sacrificed the use of his legs...and so much more.

Indeed--she dragged her eyes and her thoughts back up to Richard as she accepted his outstretched hand, allowed herself, feeling like an automaton, to be drawn in for a proper peck on her cheek--Richard’s attitude toward her could only be born of the recent disagreement they had on the subject, when he vocalized his disdain for the cause she was so busy supporting at Downton.

_You know,_ she’d said, _Granny always says a woman isn’t to hold any political opinions until she marries, and then she must adopt her husband’s. I was under the impression_ you _were more liberal-minded than that._

_I am,_ Richard shot back, _but you’ve never given me much reason to believe your opinions are your own._

Now, she drew back from him, resuming her position behind the wheelchair. “Where did your train get held up this time?”

“Nowhere. I just overslept. First night without a bomb since last week.”

“How dreadful,” said Cora. “Thank God you’re all right.”

Mary felt a little chidden that it had not occurred to her to actually worry for Richard’s safety when he mentioned the air raids. Even so, she said, “That must make you more sympathetic to what they’re enduring in the trenches.”

“The only difference being that I never volunteered to kill fellow men in the name of a rather dubious just cause. And I’m pretty sure that the three year-old who died two days ago, two streets away from my office, along with the rest of the family under the rubble, didn’t either.”

If in his line of work Richard did not shy away from the grisly details, he was rather subdued in his private life. The fact that he let out such a horrible story was a testimony to how tired he was.

“Good evening, Lady Grantham,” he took the extended hand, letting his expression soften to reassure the round-eyed woman. He quite liked her, even if he didn’t understand how an American heiress could let the Crawleys swallow her whole as they had.

“Come inside, Richard,” she replied. “You must be famished. I hope you won’t mind if we don’t dress for dinner…” She rambled to him about the table tennis tournament which Mary was suddenly conscious seemed trivial indeed contrasted with civilian casualties. Did Matthew think so, too?

She started to turn his chair, but he stopped her. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit out here awhile.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Do you need company?”

Richard stood in the foyer, looking back in displeasure as Mama talked on.

Matthew shook his head, and though he tried to smile, there was no missing the bitterness in his voice. “No doubt you want to catch up with Sir Richard.”

-/-

_Cliveden, 1920_

“Speaking of newlyweds!” cried Lady Astor, fluttering through the throng of guests milling about the hall. “If it isn’t the future Earl and Countess of Grantham.”

Their arrival had scarcely been announced, and Cora couldn’t stop the grin that split across her face to see her old friend clasp Mary’s hands, lean in to kiss her cheeks, and congratulate her recent nuptials. Nancy scarcely let go to greet Edith, whom she noticed belatedly over Mary’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since your coming out ball.”

Edith, flushing, started to protest that this wasn’t true, but Nancy’s attention was back on Mary.

“Of course I saw your picture in the paper, dear, and you looked simply stunning. Just radiant. Who did your gown? Lucile? So understated, yet so perfectly elegant. It was absolutely perfect for you...”

“ _You_ look radiant,” Robert leaned in to murmur in Cora’s ear.

“Oh, Robert.” Her fingers, curled over the crook of his elbow, gave it a little squeeze. “All those times Nancy invited Mary during the War...I wanted to come along, but it just didn’t seem right...This, though…”

She watched an almost reluctant look flicker across Matthew’s face as his hand left Mary’s where it rested in his arm to shake hands with their hostess, only to resume the tender stance the moment Nancy released him, and sighed.

“It’s everything we hoped for her. As if the whole War were nothing more than a terrible dream we’ve woken from.”

Robert said nothing, and Cora heard Nancy’s voice fill the gap:

“...of course, Mary, you have to admit it’s rather funny, your introducing a husband who isn’t the fiance you attended my last four house parties with.”

“Leave it to Nancy to glibly remind us that the unpleasantness of the recent past was in fact the reality,” said Robert through tight lips. Matthew wore a similar stiff expression at the reference to Mary’s former fiance, his light blue eyes positively icy beneath a furrowed brow. Some spots clearly remained sore, even with time.

“You mentioned some other newlyweds?” Matthew changed the subject brusquely, glancing over Nancy’s shoulder to scan the faces of the other guests.

“Nobody terribly important, I hope,” said Mary. “I do so hate to be upstaged.”

Matthew relaxed at that, his gaze returning to rest softly on his wife.

Cora’s heart swelled at the sight of them laughing together, just as they always had. “How very Mary,” she said with a happy sigh. As if anyone could upstage her eldest daughter in her new red gown with its asymmetrical tiered skirt, the long necklace draped tantalizingly over her elegant slender shoulder blades.

“Well that’s the funny thing,” said Nancy, indicating the other end of the hall with a sweep of her gloved hand. “Richard’s gone and tied the knot, too. Without so much as an announcement in the paper.”

All four of them blinked in surprise; remarkably, Mary was the first to regain her composure, replying blandly, “Without an announcement? That’s not at all his style.”

Robert snorted, a puff of a laugh devoid of mirth. “Indeed it’s not. The nerve of him, showing his face _here_ \--”

“It isn’t our house party, Robert,” said Cora through her teeth as she struggled to maintain her smile. But she understood her husband’s feelings on the matter… She had visions herself of Sir Richard Carlisle storming from the library, a bruise darkening on his cheekbone. It was the last time she’d seen him, and a real test of her character to have ice sent up to his room for him.

“Yes, well…” Nancy Astor caught her lower lip between her teeth as she glanced back toward the hulking stone fireplace at the end of the hall. Cora hardly dared look for Sir Richard...if she didn’t see him, perhaps it wouldn’t be true? “His choice of wife won’t be popular with some. _I_ approve of Elsa, of course.”

“Elsa?” Mary echoed. “The woman from--”

“Salzburg, yes,” Nancy said. “Elsa Von Mentz…”

Cora felt the tendons tighten in Robert’s forearm beneath her fingertips. “Remember, Robert,” she told him as much as to remind herself, “he didn’t publish….”

-/-

The precarious acceptance created by Lady Astor’s warm welcome did not last, as ephemeral and futile as Emperor Charles’ efforts for peace. As soon as the footman announced the arrival of the Crawleys, the not-so-subtle curious staring aimed at Elsa resumed, with the addition of whispered gossips.

Elsa could not hear what the guests were saying of course, but years of practice in Vienna gave her enough experience to imagine the hushed conversations quite acutely.

_“A true war hero_ ,” the officer, straightened in his red uniform, his chest disappearing under the numerous decorations, most probably declared in a martial and admiring tone.

_“So different from last year,”_ the woman who was assuredly his wife sighed with theatrical relief. _“So much better, indeed. They’re positively radiant.”_

_“All is well_ , _”_ a dowager would have approved from her settee.

_“Look at_ his _choice,”_ a young war widow must have shaken her head in disapprobation. _“He must have been desperate for an aristocratic wife.”_

Sipping her champagne as if her husband’s former fiancée had not stepped into Cliveden’s great hall with her own husband - her cousin - Elsa silently replied to the curious stares with a less than benevolent one.

“My, my, my, what a pleasant surprise… For people you described as reclusive, they do look to be in a conquering mood.”

As she spoke aloud, she glanced at Richard. Besides the natural surprise at the footman’s announcement, betrayed by the typical clenching of his jaw under the short cropped beard she had encouraged him to grow over the summer, he did not look very affected by the situation. He held his glass gingerly and his shoulders looked relaxed enough. However, his blue eyes shone angrily as they rested on the men who stood proudly by Lady Mary’s side, her father and her husband.

Richard drained his champagne.

“I suppose the problem they had with Mary attending Lady Astor’s house parties at Cliveden wasn’t Cliveden after all. Or the Astors…”

Elsa bit back her reply as he reached for another glass.

“Look at the pompous fool,” he said, “parading with his blessed heir and son-in-law. Everything remains in the family, the world is saved from eternal disgrace.”

Richard’s tone was bitter and angry, his champagne remaining untouched, as if forgotten. There was bad blood here. How did Mark put it? The hesitant fiancée would be forgotten before Richard’s animosity towards the Crawley men ever vanished. From the way the younger Crawley’s face went pale and the older one’s got rubicund and both started to look around furiously at something Lady Astor’s said, the sentiment was more than reciprocal.

“It’s the way they’ve been raised, darling. They can’t imagine the world otherwise,” she replied with a sad shake of the head. “You should have seen my father and my father-in-law on the day of my wedding. I remember discussing with Karl about who was happiest, we the supposedly blessed couple, or our respective families.”

“I know your brother-in-law was furious. I still can picture Jürgen swearing he wouldn’t let himself be bullied into a marriage he didn’t want, in the middle of a Glasgow pub, just before he left for Austria.”

“Jürgen always was a disappointment to the Von Mentz family. Karl was the dutiful son and heir.” Elsa got almost lost in her reminiscences for a second. Karl had not loved her, and she had not loved him, but they had managed to have two beautiful children, remain relatively faithful to each other and live a good life. Marrying for love was such a strange change for her. “You know they make you responsible for Jürgen’s political erring ways? You contaminated him, they say.”

As if _republicanism_ were some kind of flu someone caught by breathing the same air as a sick person.

Richard smiled again, at last. “Well, you heard that some of my cousins blame my pacifism on him--as well as this _terrible_ marriage of mine. Can you imagine how I dared to bring a _Catholic_ into the family?”

It was Elsa’s turn to snort as she hid her mischievous smile behind her glass. “Well, technically, he introduced us, so...”

She didn’t finish her sentence as she noticed that the esteemed Earl of Grantham’s face had gone from red to dangerously pale. The pompous indignation had been replaced by a feeling she did not like at all. Across the room, their eyes met. His closed and contemptuous expression was as clear as crystal water. _You’ve no right to be here among us. Your presence is an insult._ He stared at her angrily like her people stared at Richard in Austria last spring whenever they realized he was British. As if on cue, the whispers had gotten even lower, and the guests wore closed expressions now.

_An Austrian. An enemy._

Richard felt the change of mood as well, if the growing tension in his shoulders was any indication. In his eyes, she could clearly see he was questioning the sanity of their presence here. He had been wary of accepting Lady Astor’s invitation, and had only accepted on Elsa’s insistence.

_The War’s over. They lost their sons. I lost my daughter. We’re even._

If they hid, they would never be able to have a life in London, and she would never forgive herself for ruining the years of hard work that had led Richard to where he was. Elsa took the glass that remained untouched in her husband’s hand, motioned to a footman carrying an empty tray and placed their glasses on it. As her father used to say after the Emperor disgraced him momentarily for speaking too frankly one too many times about the Balkanic powder-keg, the advantage of being regarded as damaged goods by your peers was that it gave you the greatest freedom.

If you did not risk to fall even lower, it became unnecessary to check every word you uttered.

“ _Komm_ , _Liebling_ , introduce me to your former in-laws,” she said with a wolfish smile and took his hand, relishing the sheer masculinity of it, the way his fingers wrapped around hers firmly, telling a whole silent story.


	5. 1920 (II)

After Mary told him that Richard Carlisle had blackmailed her into an engagement, Matthew thought there could be no further depths for the blackguard to sink to. Now it seemed he'd been quite wrong. Once again he was very glad to have given the man a memento of his last night at Downton-and simultaneously very sorry that it had only been a bruised cheekbone. Married to an Austrian, indeed! One thought of that rather salty phrase about sleeping with one's enemies. He gritted his teeth as he thought of innumerable comrades shot down by German bullets, and couldn't believe this man had presumed to visit Downton for years.

"Of course he didn't publish," Robert was saying under his breath to Cora, chest puffed. "He'd hardly have come out rose-scented, would he? Just a petulant jilted fiancé-"

"Mary darling," Matthew said, laying his free hand over the gloved one that held his own arm very stiffly now, and noticing how pale his wife had gone. "Are you quite all right? Ought we to excuse ourselves?"

"Oh heavens," said Lady Astor before Mary could reply; Matthew had forgotten their hostess was still standing with them, privy almost to one of the family's best-kept secrets. "I hadn't realized there was bad blood."

"Between the English and the Austrians?" Edith said, unhelpfully, earning one of Cora's stage-whispered rebukes and one of Mary's characteristic eyerolls.

Really, Matthew thought, a slight smile forming in spite of the far less than desirable circumstances, his thumb scuffing over his wife's satin-covered knuckles, she was magnificent in her composure. He alone of all of them knew her intimately enough to see what an effort it was for her to appear so.

"Don't worry about me, Nancy," Mary said. "Meeting again was inevitable. It may as well be at Cliveden. In fact it's rather poetic."

Thankfully Lady Astor, satisfied that one guest was not distressed by the presence of another, took herself away to greet a new arrival and did not hear Matthew say, "As if Carlisle would recognise poetry if a book of it hit him in the head."

From what Mary had told him of her engagement, and what he'd witnessed, Sir Richard had done nothing to appeal to her inner romantic. Not that he wanted any man but himself to know that part of her. Still, the thought of the joyless, _soulless_ life she might have endured married to the likes of the publisher… And Nancy Astor apparently _liked_ this man! Matthew had a new appreciation for his father-in-law's reluctance to spend a great deal of time in the woman's company, if this was an indication of her tastes in general.

"Preferably thrown by you?" asked Mary, eyebrow arched above glimmering eyes, and he had to raise her hand to his lips.

"I don't know," Edith said, craning her head to see around Cora. "There's something poetic about the new Lady Carlisle's gown."

"Lady Elsa," Mary corrected, and Matthew noticed she did not steal so much as a glance at her former fiance's new wife-a tall slender blonde who, he was rather unsportingly pleased to see, didn't have a patch on Mary. Though she did have more than a few years. "She's Austrian aristocracy."

Of course she was. Robert had called Carlisle a social climber from the beginning, and now, staring hard at the bald spot in back of his head, Matthew was galled that once upon a time he'd given the man the benefit of the doubt. After all, middle class men had to stick together. Puzzling though it had been that Carlisle stood by the engagement when there seemed to be little affection between them, Matthew thought there must be _some_ feeling on Carlisle's part; if it was only blue blood he was after, there were ladies who would not hesitate to admit one of the richest men in Britain to their ancient houses. Whatever feelings he might have harbored obviously didn't run deep, or else he wouldn't be married a scant six months later.

"It's certainly something." Cora unabashedly eyed the black and gold evening gown with a train so long it recalled a wedding gown-and not in the simply elegant style of the wedding gown Mary walked down the aisle in. "Do you think it's French?"

"It's ostentatious enough to be," said Robert. "Carlisle always was the worst show-off. Thank heaven it's not you in a dress like that, living in that horrible house, Mary."

As she smiled up at Matthew, Robert asked his daughter, "How do you know so much about her, anyway?"

"We did have one or two conversations over the years." Mary stood very tense at Matthew's side, but with her exhale she relaxed slightly and went on in a less arch manner, "I don't know very much. Only that there was a...woman before the war."

The immoral hypocrite, Matthew thought. How had he dared blackmail Mary for her one foolish mistake?

"It didn't work out," Mary added

"It has now," Edith said.

Matthew squeezed Mary's hand. "As so often happens."

"It seems we both ended up with the people we were meant to," said Mary. "I'm happy for him."

"I hope you can sound more genuine," said Edith, "because they're coming this way."

* * *

_Downton Abbey, April, 1917_

Although Carson was absent in body, Mary nevertheless felt his presence in the drawing room as she conversed on the settee with Lavinia, his words from the previous evening repeated in her memory: As if any man in his right mind could prefer Miss Swire to you.

However, when the door from the dining room, where the men had been ensconced with their traditional port and cigars which the butler's dramatic collapse had prevented their partaking of after Richard's first dinner at Downton, Matthew seemed in danger of being deemed of unsound mind by Carson when he strode directly toward his fiancee with only a brief, troubled frown in Mary's direction. Papa followed, wearing a similarly disgruntled look as he joined Mama, while Granny and Aunt Rosamund looked up from their card game as Richard entered the room last, their matching expressions of piqued interest leaving no doubt as to their being mother and daughter.

For a moment Mary lingered on the settee, not really hearing Lavinia's words to Matthew, but also not missing the glance she darted Richard's way. If she'd seemed uncomfortable in Richard's presence the night before, when she insisted he was a mere former acquaintance of her uncle's, she'd looked positively like a cornered animal tonight when Mama, having found out about the prior connection-but not the altercation Rosamund claimed to have witnessed between them in the park-seated them together at dinner.

Less at ease with Richard than she had been since making his acquaintance last summer, Mary nevertheless rose to meet him as he accepted coffee from Lang. It wouldn't do to leave him alone, and she felt increasingly like a third wheel as Lavinia turned in toward Matthew as they conversed.

"My," she said, accepting the offer of more coffee in her own cup. "It seems after dinner talk got too grim for the gentlemen, as well as for the ladies?"

"Not much more so than usual, I'd say…" Richard trailed off, stirring his coffee absently. "Your cousin and I don't share the same vision of the war, I'm afraid," he explained with a pacifying smile, and refrained from reaching for her hand.

That would not be proper.

"It's inevitable, though. One can't have the same vision from the trenches and from the government corridors," he went on philosophically. In other words, one could not help but grow bitterly cynical and detached as they witnessed the daily and sad comedia dell' arte back in London. He did not voice this last thought though and focused his attention on Mary's graceful hands in an attempt not to stare at her lips too obviously.

"You've been missed," he whispered.

He had missed her, indeed, as more and more time elapsed between each stay in the south. More than he wanted to admit. Ignoring the voice that suggested that the diminishing frequency of Mary's visits might have something to do with the idiotic officer the whole Crawley family stared at with so much admiration, he asked quietly: "Can I hope for a visit to London in a foreseeable future?"

Mary could scarcely contain her surprise at this unexpected bit of sentiment, coming from Richard. He must definitely mean to propose, then. Not that there had been much doubt of his accepting her invitation with the knowledge that she would welcome-even expected-an offer of marriage. The problem was, after what Carson had said, she doubted whether she still wanted one.

All the same, his nearness, close enough for her to smell the spicy fragrance of his cologne and remember the scent of him as they kissed in Cliveden's maze...his attentive and admiring gaze on her face, were flattering.

Unconsciously, Mary's hand went up to fiddle with the end of her necklace. "You mean this weekend hasn't put you off seeing me entirely?"

Richard hid his smile behind his cup of coffee as he stole another glance at her, admiring her profile secretly. This was the Mary Crawley whose company he enjoyed so much. Someone who did not lose herself in shallow declarations. Someone who, like him, preferred to look in the same direction as her partner rather than believe in some misguided romantic and literary notion of love.

"On the contrary…"

"What a relief," Mary replied, although it wasn't, really.

If she did tell Matthew how she felt, she'd have to cope with the guilt of disappointing a good man who liked her in spite of her family's less than warm reception. On the other hand, was she fool enough to throw a man like Richard away? Audacious enough to lay her own heart bear to a man who'd replaced her?

Over Richard's shoulder, she watched Matthew and his mother try to cajole his fiancée into joining a card game, against Lavinia's protestations that she had a dreadful poker face and no one should like to partner with her. How many times had Mary and Matthew schemed wordlessly across that very card table, and trounced various members of her family? During that party at Cliveden she thought she'd found a similar rapport with Richard, but her family's lack of enthusiasm at this one made her question whether she truly had the wherewithal to sustain the us against the world attitude he seemed to thrive on. The thrill of victory with Matthew had been all the sweeter for knowing it could be a glimpse into her future as the Countess of Grantham, reigning supreme over Downton, including its card table.

"I wish I could be sure," she told Richard. "Normally we'd be planning our stay for the season, but with so many of the usual events cancelled, Papa may not wish to trouble with opening up Grantham House."

Richard murmured something about that being understandable, and if he was disappointed, his face did not reveal much. Not that Mary was really giving him her undivided attention, Matthew having caught her eye, his head inclined toward the card table and his blue eyes asking quite plainly if she would partner with him.

"Of course if we do come," she said, flashing him a brief smile, "you'll be the first to know. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm being summoned to cards."

* * *

Cliveden, 1920

Fortunately or unfortunately, their way from the spot they had elected by the fireplace to the Crawleys was not as direct as Richard would have expected. As they progressed through the crowd of mingling guests in a careful slalom, he and Elsa had to stop twice or thrice to receive hushed but sincere congratulations. Viscount Astor - a bitter but honest rival in the newspapers business - shook his head in mock disapprobation, a gesture that was belied by the warmth of his firm handshake.

Just as Nancy said, they had good friends, not very vocal yet but steadfast in their loyalty and support.

As they progressed further, John Dewar, whom they had missed on their way to the fireplace, interrupted a heated exchange about commercial strategy with his younger brother and ostensibly offered his congratulations to _his fellow countryman_ _and his beautiful bride,_ while Thomas managed a clipped few amiable words-quite a feat for a man who'd lobbied for the _Alien Act_ in 1905.

"Don't mind him, Richard," the elder Dewar commented, a mischievous smile forming under his bushy silver mustache. "How are you? Will you be back in Scotland soon? Isn't Elsa's son here as well?"

In spite of the abrupt change of mood caused by the Crawleys' arrival, Elsa and Richard had to smile at the onslaught of questions from Lord Forteviot. He and Richard had been each other's supports in the Scottish Liberal Party for decades now.

"I'm afraid Sebastian preferred the allure of a fishing trip with Mark around Loch Lochy," Elsa replied pleasantly. "It's very kind of you to ask, John."

"I won't blame him, that's for sure!" he exclaimed. "Elizabeth and I will be very happy to see the three of you in Perth sometime," he added out loud before whispering in confidence, "Thomas Morison would love to have a talk with you as soon as possible about Inverness-shire, and other matters about his functions in London."

For a fleeting second, Richard was tempted to forget all about the Crawleys and enjoy a nice evening, chatting the night away with the likes of Lord Astor, John Dewar, or even his very conservative brother Tommy. _These_ were his people, men who had built themselves up through hard work, men whose greatest achievement was a bit different than simply being born.

"Absolutely." He accepted the invitation automatically, as he'd been accustomed during his many years as a bachelor, when increased pressure from Elsa's hand reminded him that he was not alone anymore to make such decisions. He turned to his wife, sheepish in spite of his best efforts. "That is, if you agree, darling, naturally."

"Naturally…" she echoed in a teasing tone. "I'll ring Elizabeth and we'll settle everything. Thank you so much for the invitation."

"Richard, the married man!" John commented, joining a clap to the shoulder to the teasing. "I thought I would die before witnessing this. Maybe there's hope for Tommy as well? Tell him, married life isn't so bad, is it?"

Richard chuckled as he saw Tommy Dewar's frown deepen at the unveiled allusion to his bachelor habits, but refrained from following John Dewar's lead. In spite of their bitter political differences, Tommy and Richard had been known as irremovable pillars of London nights.

Free and unattached.

He couldn't let one of his oldest partners in debauchery down. Richard settled for an introspective silence that could be interpreted either way and, for once letting the un-subtle allusion to Shakespeare's _Much Ado_ slide, he turned to Elsa, with a shy half-smile. _Not that bad indeed_. Alas, by doing so, he found the Crawleys directly in his field of vision, and the unabashed examination he and his wife were the objects of made his blood boil. Elsa had noticed as well, for the grip on his hand got firmer again.

There was an old wound that needed to be tended here and now.

"Look, John, can we speak again later? We need to…"

He finished his sentence with motion of his head in the Crawleys' direction. John Dewar blinked his understanding and turned to his brother again as Richard and Elsa walked to the infamous _former in-laws-to-be_. Doing so, Richard caught Mary's stare and did not let her look away until he could be the first to greet her.

"Mary, it's an unexpected pleasure." The words came far more easily than he would have expected, and his tone was free from any bitterness when he surprised himself with a joking half-smile. "Nancy has a twisted sense of irony, hasn't she?"

"My thoughts exactly." Mary accepted his proffered hand, giving it a brief shake; he extended no such gesture to the rest of her family, ignoring them deliberately. After all, Mary had been the only one to see him off that last morning.

The one to be honest with him-albeit a great deal too late.

"Can I introduce you to Elsa? We married three weeks ago."

Mary took Elsa's hand, keenly aware of her own husband and father's displeasure-though whether they were more vexed with her consorting with the enemy or at their being ignored so pointedly by the interlopers, she could not say. "I see marriage is as agreeable to Richard as it is to me."

She smiled, a little surprised at how easily the expression came, how genuine her pleasure was-or perhaps it was less pleasure than plain and simple _relief_ that she needed not feel guilty about that chapter of her life. He looked well. _Very_ well-and not just because of the new beard he'd grown, which suited him. Somehow, he looked years younger than he had at the end of their engagement. It must have been as exhausting to him as it had been to her. _I hope the next woman you love deserves you more than I did._ Although Mary couldn't ignore a slightly chafing thought that she hadn't expected the next love to occur quite so close on the heels of the last. _Was_ Richard in love with his wife?

Elsa took the extended hand and returned the strangely friendly welcome, making profit of the occasion to study _the_ _one that got away_.

_The one to whose idiocy she owed her current happiness._

Lady Mary was truly a striking figure, with piercing dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. The lack of wrinkles around the eyes and the freshness of her pale skin under the minimal make-up betrayed her young age - not even thirty, Elsa could bet, and the weight of an approaching fortieth birthday made itself known. In a way, Richard's stubborn attraction was perfectly understandable. However, the self-satisfied grin Elsa had noticed when she first noticed the Crawleys' presence, and the way the younger woman let herself be pampered by the man at her side revealed a spoiled nature that Elsa could recognize anywhere.

She'd been that kind of woman before her own world collapsed irrevocably.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Mary. I've heard so much about you over the past two years," she answered with her warmest smile, not even bothering to hide her slight tendency to roll her r's that made stand out so much in this very British setting. Richard and his father always teased her, and her son, about that, telling they sounded more Scottish than both of the Carlisles would ever sound with their educated Edinburgh soft brogue. She then turned to the rest of the family, intent on confronting them head on. Richard could shoulder the weight of his deliberate rudeness on his own.

"Lady Grantham, Lord Grantham, Lady Edith." She acknowledged their presence with stiff politeness that obliged them to acknowledge them in return. "Mr. Crawley, I am most honored to meet all of you."

Elsa had shed her titles gladly last year when nobility was abolished by the new republic, well decided to make a new start, but it did not mean she would accept being regarded with so much contempt by such a recent aristocracy. If she had understood Richard correctly, her ancestors had fought against the Ottoman invasion when theirs were probably nothing but mere merchants.

Whilst her family were forced to form civil, if not precisely cordial, new acquaintance, Mary took advantage of the opportunity to observe Richard's bride more closely. Whatever Papa and Matthew thought of the gown, it lent Elsa a splendid presence-and one could hardly begrudge a woman the allure of high fashion after the lean years of war. The grandeur suited Richard's tastes, and they suited each other, Mary thought, with their fair coloring and tall, slender builds. Although in Elsa's case, there seemed to be something more to the slenderness than simply a woman approaching middle age gracefully. She tried to remember what Richard had told her about his Austrian _friend_ , but to her chagrin all she could think of were quarrels. _You might pretend to possess a smidgeon of patriotism,_ she'd told him crossly, and he'd shot back, _You might try to understand my reluctance to sing the praise of_ our brave boys _starving out civilians._ There had been sharp words during the Spanish flu epidemic, as well. _Have you no idea how lucky you are?_ He'd said something about children dying… Elsa's?

"Sir Richard must be something of a knight in shining armor, whisking you away safely to England," Edith said. "From what I gather, conditions are still rather dire on the continent."

Mary met Matthew's eyes, only to glance away immediately as an inappropriate smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the thought she'd read on his face: how typical of Edith to trot out some grim news she'd read in the papers for the sake of showing off how informed she was about the world. And how typical of Mama to seize on it and show off how little informed _she_ was.

"Mr. Crawley's mother has done rather a lot of work helping refugees," she said.

Richard closed his eyes in frustration but managed not to shake his head. A little over eight months since he last saw the Crawleys, and he had already forgotten how their senseless chatter unnerved him, got under his skin, provoked the least desirable sides of his personality.

What on earth had possessed him to imagine he could marry into this family? It would have been a perfect, daily nightmare.

"There's nothing like a generous mother repairing the damages caused by the likes of her son, I suppose." Elsa's tone went from warm and well-meaning to icily cold. Glacial. Be it the notion of the existence of a supposed knight in shining armour, the allusion to the situation on the continent, to the British good conscience, or the men's judging stares, the Crawleys had managed to provoke the worst aspects of Elsa's personality as well.

Her nails were leaving a mark in his palm, Richard was sure.

His wife was more than keen to pick up a fight, and he knew he would gladly back her up - that he did not publish Mary's secret did not mean he did not possess other means to hurt the Crawleys badly. So there was little Richard could do but try to silently search for Mary's eyes, and plead with her to put an end to this conversation.

"Belgians, mainly," Robert interjected before Carlisle could add anything in his wife's vein-really, they were two peas in a pod. The newspaperman had always carried himself with an air of superiority, as though his position were more valuable than theirs because he had earned it, so it only followed that he would marry a member of the damned German race, whose pride in their own nobility had nearly made the whole world fall.

Robert went on, laying a hand on his son-in-law's shoulder, "So it's more that she's continuing the work of men like _Captain_ Crawley who shed blood for those driven from their homeland by your invading army."

_Predictable._

As suddenly as Elsa's hand had tensed in his grasp, it relaxed as Mary's father recited the short-sighted and well-meaning patriotic breviary. Yet, as relieved as Richard was to notice that his wife had realized that the honorable Lord Grantham was nothing but a fool, unnerving to no end, but globally harmless, Richard could not resist the occasion to tease the man a little.

It was as if he had offered the stick to get beaten, complete with the red ribbon.

"Come now, Lord Grantham!" he exclaimed with mock surprise. "Don't tell me you believe what we were told to write in the newspapers for four years?"

_German bullets don't kill. Casualties in France are limited. The Germans are going to fold in the following months…_

Such misinformation and blatant lies had covered the pages of British newspapers during the war. Some publishers like Northcliffe or even Beaverbrook had gladly participated to the propaganda, earning high places in the government. Richard had just followed the tide, patiently waiting for the occasion to take back his own autonomy.

_We fight to defend Belgium's freedom. We fight to defend the right to autodetermination, in the Balkans, in the Middle East..._

As if reading his mind, Elsa gave words to his unspoken thought.

"So, please tell me, Lord Grantham, if Great Britain is such of paragon of freedom, why do you try to force some dubious agreement on Persia? I thought your objectives out there were about freedom, not oil," she asked with the feigned naivety of a woman needing a man to bring some light on such difficult matters. "More importantly, why does the government still refuse the Irish plea for independence? What does your _other_ son-in-law, the one you're hiding, not the one you're displaying, think about that?"

Richard cringed. It was a low blow, and even he would have refrained from giving it, but Elsa couldn't seem to stop herself now she'd got started.

"Your presence here is as legitimate as ours in the Balkans. You can't have it both ways, can you?" Now, her tone was simply cold, with the hint of teasing In other words, everything was back to normal. "And, for the record, I'm an Austrian citizen, daughter of a Tyrolian earl, from a family who served the Habsburgs for as long as we remember."

Matthew Crawley opened his mouth to interject, and remained that way when Elsa raised her index finger and cut him in a tone she did not dare use with her fifteen years-old son anymore.

"Let me finish, will you, _young man_?"

Richard's eyebrows went up at that last comment, and a look at Mary's expression revealed a similar sentiment, albeit a great deal less amused. Considering that Elsa was still shy of forty, and only a few years Crawley's senior, the comment was more than ironic, and sadly revealing.

"For the record, my mother's family comes from Istria, which means I could be a citizen in the new kingdom of Yugoslavia, as a Croatian-not that I would like to live under an Orthodox monarchy."

Richard smiled as Elsa started to lay out her very complex genealogy. Back in their youth, Jürgen had needed many lessons of history on Central Europe to explain to his schoolmates why he refused to be called a _German_.

"And I'm a Catholic, naturally," she added with a hint of provocation, "so I would be so very grateful if you didn't put me into the same bag as our very Protestant, Prussian and many times embarrassing cousins. Please do get your facts straight before trying to insult me."

For sure, Elsa loathed it when people called her _German_ , for the same reasons Richard did not like to be called _English_.

"It's a good thing that the world isn't as manichaean as you seem to believe, Lord Grantham, or else, my left arm would keep on trying to tear my right one apart every day that God makes."

"My," said Mary. "That would make your dress even more daring."

It was a shallow remark, she knew it-and she deliberately avoided Richard's gaze after she made it-but they were out of their depth, all of them, and it was high time someone threw out a life preserver. She'd hoped Richard would be the one to do it, having endured enough evenings of after dinner port and cigars with Papa and Matthew to anticipate where such a discussion would lead, but she saw now what a naive wish that had been. Just because he had not, in the end, wanted to expose _her_ to public ridicule did not mean he would preserve her family from it. The look of admiration he wore as he watched his new wife do the dirty work for him had not gone unnoticed. _They made a good team_.

Warmth prickled across her cheekbones, and she slipped her hand once more into the crook of Matthew's elbow, her fingers as tense as his forearm beneath the sleeve of his tailcoat. The leaders of the world might have signed a peace treaty in 1919, but it seemed that in the summer of 1920 there were still private battles to be fought. Poor Papa-this would hardly be the return to the great pre-war parties he'd hoped Cliveden would be; and poor Mama, who'd been so delighted when he told her they might all go, looked like the last rose of summer now in her pale pink gown.

Glimpsing her own reflection in the glass front of a cabinet, Mary drew back her shoulders to show her dress to its full advantage. While not as _avant garde_ as Elsa's, she recalled how Matthew admired it the first time she wore it, fascinated with how it appeared deep pink in some lights, vivid crimson in others, how the layers of flounces had a petal-like effect. Like one of her grandmother's prize-winning roses, he'd told her, nuzzling her perfumed neck; somehow she'd maintained her composure to reply drily that they were Mr. Molesley's roses. But _she_ was the prize winner, with so adoring and affectionate a husband. Elsa could cling to her bitter memories of a past gone forever, and _her_ husband's aloof approval.

"Come, darling," she said, giving Matthew's arm a little squeeze. "We oughtn't monopolize the Carlisles all night. No doubt Nancy's other guests wish to offer the newlyweds their congratulations. And I've just spied Lord and Lady Anglesey. I didn't get to speak with them nearly long enough at our wedding breakfast."

"Dear me, were they there?" said Papa, looking about the room as though Richard and his wife had excused themselves already.

"You really don't remember much about that day at all, do you?" said Mama as they moved off together.

"It was a blur of happiness…"

Mary's latest comeback, followed by a childish, self-satisfied smile Richard had never witnessed before left him with mixed feelings, between dull anger and acute disappointment. Not even a year of marriage to Matthew Crawley seemed to have deprived Mary of a good part of the wit he had admired so much in the past. She could do so much better!

Or, better said, she could have done so much better.

"How's Downton, Mary?" Richard enquired before the Crawleys walked too far away. "It's such a miraculous blessing that the heir received yet another inheritance, from a renowned war profiteer this time. But I'm glad that this little detail didn't stop you from enjoying the most beautiful day in your life. Or was it in the life of Downton?"

It was as low as he could ever get without publishing the Pamuk story, but his instincts rebelled at the notion of seeing the Crawleys walk away like that, unchallenged.

But Matthew couldn't walk away from _that,_ despite the squeeze Mary gave his arm, attempting to draw him away. Chest puffing, he lifted his chin to lend height as he faced Richard. "I thought you claimed that _liar_ was not among your extensive negative traits."

"Indeed," Richard replied, so coolly that Mary felt a chill clutch at her heart.

Again, she tugged on her husband's arm, and thankfully this time, he followed her lead to rejoin the party and leave the ghosts of the past behind.

" _Everything is well in the best of all possible worlds_ , then," Elsa quoted with a smile as the Crawleys went off, less dignified than they had intended, probably."And the greater good came out from the darkness."

"I suppose Mary never wanted anything more than to be queen of the county, after all."

"So she's living her own fairy tale, complete with the castle and the knight in shining armor. Let's hope for them that their bubble never bursts. They seem ill-equipped for the real world to me." Elsa shook her head sadly.

Richard raised an eyebrow at that. "You're incredibly generous for a woman who metaphorically emasculated a man in front of his bride."

"Really? I've never would have guessed," she replied, her blue eyes shining with incredulity. "Anyway, losing everything isn't a fate I would wish on my worst enemy. It hurts too much. Besides…"

Elsa trailed on, her eyes absently following the Crawleys who were chatting happily with the Marquess and Marchioness of Anglesley.

"Besides?"

"Had they not been such idiots, I probably wouldn't be there, wearing this ring, so I can't help but feel grateful," she said with the faintest smile, displaying the old-fashioned Celtic wedding ring he had put on her finger three weeks ago.

His mother's.

As a wedding was the last thing on his mind at the beginning of the summer, Richard had found himself painfully empty handed when they had decided to tie the knot, and his father had proved himself most helpful, wordlessly giving his blessing to the union in the process.

"You're probably right," Richard acquiesced. Life was a strange, chaotic thing, really, with the most unexpected turns, for the best and for the worst. During their tensed exchange with the Crawleys, more guests had arrived, and more friendly faces, such as the American Ambassador, the very democrat and Wilsonian John W. Davis, and his Mexican counterpart, along with their spouses. He took Elsa's free hand. "Come on, let's mingle."


End file.
